On Writing…

Yesterday, I was asked about the difference between writing what I believe to be the truth versus writing something that can be independently checked. I absolutely think there are differences between personal truths and facts. I also think that there is a line between dramatic embellishment and wilfull lying (which is where Frey and others have erred). My truth doesn’t have to be scientifically accurate or verifiable, that is part of what makes it mine alone. So much of our day to day life is a subjective experience

On Neruda…

My heart races when Neruda talks of how he sees his lover, how his passion evolves because of her. My heart aches when Neruda shows the profound depths of his depression, how his dark internal world could be. He writes of the world he is experiencing with passion and he does not cloud the essence of his experiences with easy phrases or lofty metaphors. The result is breathtaking. He once stated that he always returns to his work, “to the blank page which every day awaits us poets so that we shall fill it

On My Love of Rilke…

Rilke can utterly undo me. He has the ability to help me clear my mind — trust me this is no easy task. I don’t know if it is the sensual imagery, the stark mysticism, the rigorous language, or all three. I suspect it is all three… The Book of Hours, I, 17 She who reconciles the ill-matched threads of her life, and weaves them gratefully into a single cloth— it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall and clears it for a different celebration where the one guest

depression

Silence Over Coffee

If instead, I told you I had a cancer would you still sit, biding your time, waiting for me to heal? Would life carry on in your view of us as each day my body was divided, conquered, one weakened cell after another? If instead, I could show you spots or unnatural shadows on an X-ray film and say here and here and here that is where it is, that is where I am slowly dying, would you still simply pat me on the head and say “Now,